Now Arriving in Edinburgh
by Texadian
Summary: On one lovely day in June, it looked as if Sherlock could not become any grumpier than he already was, unless maybe, he began repeating that same day, over and over again. Inspired by the movie Groundhog Day (1993)
1. The 7:36 Train

There are certain things that Sherlock knew and had always known to be true. Criminals always had flaws, common people overlooked these flaws, and he, the great consulting detective, lived to find them. But it was in this method of reasoning that Sherlock would come to overlook his own shortcomings. For the universe didn't abide by Sherlock's rules and it sure as hell wasn't starting now.

* * *

 **The 1** **st** **of June, 2014**

With a huff, John Watson stepped out of 221b and yanked his mobile from his trouser pocket. He'd gone into the day with high hopes, only to have them crushed by his disgruntled best friend.

"Hi, it's John," he spoke into his mobile, clearly miffed, "he's not coming."

The recently wedded, father-to-be held his hand out for a cab while Lestrade prattled away on the other side of the line.

"He understands that it would be helpful to arrive today, but he says it won't happen."

A cab went by, despite John's efforts.

"He says he's busy."

And another.

"I don't know what with! Busy avoiding us for as long as possible."

Finally one slowed down.

"He's been off lately… more than usual, yes. Ever since my wedding."

"Kings Cross, please," John spoke to the cabbie. He set the phone down on the roof of the car, Lestrade's response still loud and clear, and tossed his duffle inside the car.

"God knows not even Sherlock Holmes could understand the inner workings of his own mind," he continued once inside. He nodded to himself a couple of times, smiling at the detective's ramblings, before ending the call. "I'm on my way now. I'll see you shortly."

Following his arrival at the station, John spotted Lestrade and Anderson amidst the crowd of bumbling travelers. Within a few paces, they saw him as well, and a wash of relief spread over both of their faces.

"Not waiting long I hope." John gave both of them a forced smile.

Their faces soured.

"Run out of work related topics then, eh?" John forced a playful smile.

"We're fine," Lestrade reassured him. "We're actually just waiting on Molly now. She said she'd be on her way after dropping that cat of hers off with a friend."

John nodded and swayed back and forth from one foot to the other.

"I wouldn't think she'd want to come. Especially with her-" Anderson was cut off.

"Hi guys," the petite brunette greeted the three, carefully balancing two bags and a lab kit in one arm.

"Didn't see you there behind all of this." Lestrade motioned to her pile of belongings. "Need any help?"

She shook her head adamantly. From beneath her cardigan, she produced her ticket and motioned them forward, unsure of how long she could keep upright.

"Sherlock not coming?" she asked once boarded.

The three men shot each other cautious glances before all eyes landed on John.

"He's busy. He'll be arriving later." John avoided eye contact with Molly and released a slow and uneasy breath.

"Course." Molly's lips creased and she looked away, displaying a terse smile.

A dreadfully long stretch of silence enveloped their car before John finally spoke up.

"What is it we're looking for in Edinburgh then?"

Lestrade leaned forward, hands clasped. "Turns out our victim worked for a lab in Edinburgh. We have reason to believe that it could have been a co-worker who poisoned him first."

John's mind made a leap. "A lab? Could the lethal pathogen found in his system, have originated from that lab?"

"We think so, yes."

'That's why I'm here," Molly piped up a little too enthusiastically.

Lestrade chuckled. "With your whole lab too, eh?"

She turned away, not sensing the joke. "You can never be too prepared," she muttered quietly.

"We are going talk to the lab's manager tomorrow," Lestrade went on, "to see if we can match cause of death."

"And if we find anything?"

Lestrade shrugged. "Then we'll go from there."

"I'm leaving now, Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock called out to his landlady on the first floor landing.

The older lady poked her head out of her flat with scrunched brows.

"It's almost 8'oclock at night," she fretted." Stay in, you can leave tomorrow."

He shook his head with frustration. "I'm needed in Edinburgh by morning."

"Be careful then." She raised her hand to her cheek and sighed. "Don't accept a ride from someone you don't know."

"I _am_ taking a cab to the station, though," he replied, breaking the news to her upfront. He passed her a slip of paper. "I'll be fine. John and Lestrade, and…" He paused, eyes narrowing. "Anderson, will be there once I arrive. If you need anything of importance, you can call." He pointed to the slip folded elegantly in her hand.

She nodded.

"I'll see you in a couple days. Goodnight Mrs. Hudson."

She didn't reply, but pressed her hand to her chin and downcast her eyes to the slip. The address of a hotel in messy writing was penciled across the top.

"The others are staying there. I should be returning tomorrow night."

The landlady waved a quick goodbye and stepped back into her flat as the front door clicked shut.

 **The 2** **nd** **of June, 2014**

 _Ding_

A pause.

 _Ding_

"Good morning ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to Edinburgh. We will soon be arriving at the Edinburgh Waverly station. Please ensure you take all your belongings with you as you disembark the train."

Sherlock woke slowly. His eyes felt heavy and he began to feel shooting pains down his neck. He almost immediately regretted his decision to fall asleep in the _very_ upright seat of his first class car. _Luxury comfort? Definitely not._

Where once a darkened view was out the window beside him now showed endless fields of greens and yellows in early daylight. Small farmhouses dotted the countryside, passing by like brown smudges on a flipbook and long dirt roads lay between them, appearing quite short despite stretching for miles. A thud against the rail jarred his reverie and he turned to the aisle of the car.

A man in his late forties dressed from head to toe in a horribly blue suit smiled Sherlock's way.

"Morning," he said cheerfully.

Sherlock didn't respond, but instead sized the man up with a downturned grimace. His hair was untrimmed, combed to the side to show his eyes, and he smelled like the inside of an old, untouched closet, piled up with boxes and clothes long forgotten.

"Where are you headed?"

Sherlock ignored his question, still upset with the man's presence. "When did you get here?"

The man tilted his head, probably regretting his friendliness, but answered the grumpy consulting detective regardless. "Newcastle stop."

"Oh, yes. That accent. Should have expected." He could hear John's disapproving tut in his ear, but pushed it away.

The outskirts of the city slowly crept towards them and the train's fast pace slowed. A never-ending cluster of buildings and structures stretched beside the train cars before the whole inside darkened, enveloped by the station.

"Edinburgh Waverly station," an automated voice reverberated over the speakers.

With a sudden lurch, the train came to a stop.

"That's odd."

Sherlock turned to see the man's attention focused out the opposite window towards the platform. He looked as if he would continue to explain whatever mundane occurrence fascinated the businessman, when Sherlock stood, the train barely at a halt, and pushed past him. From the bin above, Sherlock grabbed his travel bag, and swiftly made his exit through the growing mass of passengers.

Sherlock was early, or at least by his standards. Out on the street, Sherlock made his way through the crowds of people on their way to work and around town. There was one thing that Sherlock needed more than anything else at that moment: coffee.

He reached a hand back to massage his neck, when he spotted a small café a block down from the station. With a heightened sense of urgency, Sherlock walked briskly to the corner to cross, when a lady with two toddlers in a stroller crashed into his shin.

With a rather effeminate shriek, Sherlock turned to the culprit, disgruntled.

"Are you kidding me?" the lady behind the kids said –her own coffee spilling down her blouse.

Sherlock looked once down at the set of babbling kids and back up at the fuming mother, before taking off across the street and over to the coffee shop.

Inside, the small shop was bustling. A line at least ten people long, began at the counter before weaving around a cluster of chairs and tables, and finally ending beside the washroom.

With another roll of his eyes, Sherlock padded towards the end. After stepping out of the way three times to let people into the washroom, the line was finally moving up.

"How long does it take to order coffee?" he asked under his breath.

A blonde lady with short hair and a coffee button attached to her uniform smiled up at Sherlock when he reached the front.

"What can I get for you sir?"

"Just regular black coffee, please." He felt proud of himself for adding a tad bit of politeness to his request.

"We have three roasts to choose from," the lady went on. "Colombian, Winter Spice, and our house blend."

"Just a regular coffee."

"Our house then?"

Her perkiness was driving Sherlock up the wall.

"Sounds just peachy." Sherlock flashed her his trademark sociopathic smile before his face turned sour and he slid over a few notes.

"And who might this drink be for?" She flashed him another persistent smile.

"John," he supplied, as if tricking her made any difference.

"Okay, John. Let me guess, you aren't from here, are you?"

Sherlock shook his head and glanced down at the clock on his phone. He was going to be late.

"Are you visiting for business or pleasure?" She winked at him.

Sherlock felt a bit of the bagel he'd eaten on the train coming back up. "Business."

"Too bad," she replied, pouting.

"You know what actually, I'm here for pleasure." Sherlock leaned across the counter. "In less than five minutes, I'll be on my way to the lab of a murder victim that was poisoned with a lethal pathogen. I get to interrogate the site manager and employees to evaluate whether they're capable of killing a human being. And you know what?"

The lady shook her head, eyes dark and deep like the inside of a coffee cup.

"It's all for pleasure."

Sherlock grinned down at her, leaned back to his side of the counter, and took the change from her outstretched hands.

"Thanks for the coffee," he finished, grabbing the cup of dark liquid from the other barista beside her and heading for the door.

Opening the door to the BioTech lab was like stepping into Barts; the smells, the clean surfaces and Molly. Molly… _what was she doing here?_

Sherlock ignored the exasperated glance John sent him and the sarcastic remarks on tardiness from Lestrade. He was focused solely on the out of her lab coat pathologist, hiding behind charts on the other side of the room.

"Didn't know you were coming on this little field trip."

"Didn't know if you were going to bother showing up," she bit back in retort.

"Is this," Lestrade gestured to Sherlock and Molly, "why he is so off right now?"

John shrugged.

"How's Tom?"

Molly gave him a drop-dead stare, before retuning to the sheet of paperwork in her hands.

His eyes narrowed, before retreating back towards the other group.

"She's going to look around the lab a bit while we talk to the manager." Lestrade tried to catch Sherlock's eyes, but they kept wandering back to Molly. "Shall we go?"

The other two nodded calmly, while Sherlock sneered to himself and followed suit.

Sherlock barely saw Molly the rest of the morning. By lunch, she split off from the group to head back to the hotel while the others made their way to the victim's mother's house.

The house was situated in an older neighbourhood with colour-clashing townhouses that were practically built on top of each other. Football banners displayed resident affiliations in front room windows and side alleys housed rubbish forgotten or simply ignored by passing dustbin lorries. A new, blue civic sat parked on the street in front of the two story house and the four men exited from a cab just behind it.

"Best behaviour," Lestrade told Sherlock with a smirk.

Sherlock looked away in contempt.

The pathway up to the house was recently renovated, as well as the front entryway's siding and windows. A woman in her late 60s answered the door to the four men –her fading red hair tied up in a tight bun on her head.

"You must be from NSY?" She stepped back to let them in.

"I'm DI Lestrade and these are my… colleagues," he finished with furrowed brow.

Sherlock scoffed and stepped by the lady, into her foyer.

"Did the vict- Scott. Did Scott live with you?" Sherlock looked around noting the messy living room and smart TV hanging from the wall at the back.

The woman shook her head. "No, he lived alone. About 20km from here actually."

Lestrade shot Sherlock a warning look. _Best behaviour,_ rang through his ears.

The detective inspector ran through his normal brigade of questions and condolences, while Sherlock behaved himself, sitting on the settee in the corner. It looked as if he was coming to the end, when Sherlock jumped in, interrupting one of the lady's many childhood stories.

"Did you win the lottery? Maybe inherit a large sum of money from a deceased family member?"

"Sorry?" the lady shifted her attention to Sherlock.

"Ignore him," Lestrade said.

The lady glanced at the dark oak clock behind them and stood. "I'm sorry, but I have errands to do before the shops close. You can come back tomorrow if you'd like."

"I think we're done her ma'am. Thank you for your time." Lestrade pulled Sherlock up by the wrist and guided him towards the door.

"Sorry about that," John added in on his way out –his face tinted red like a parent embarrassed of his children.

Sometimes Sherlock could forget that the others interacted outside of work. It always seemed impractical and unnecessary, but then again, people did silly things. A different cab brought the four of them back to the hotel and as they neared the elevators, Lestrade invited the group for supper and drinks at the hotel's restaurant.

John agreed promptly, his stomach rumbling almost on cue. Anderson shrugged and said "why not," shortly after. Lestrade had his phone out to call Molly, when the others' eyes landed on Sherlock.

"I don't eat when I'm on a case," he informed them matter-of-factly.

"I-" Anderson was quickly cut off.

"Key, John. I'll need the key to your room."

John dug into his pocket and pulled out the plastic card. With little more than a nod to the others Sherlock left the men for the elevators.

"Where's he going?" Sherlock caught Anderson utter.

"His mind palace to sulk," Lestrade stepped in.

Sherlock turned away from them and jammed the up button on the elevator panel. _Glad I booked my ticket back to London tonight,_ he thought bitterly.

* * *

 _Ding_

A pause.

 _Ding_

"Good morning ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to Edinburgh. We will soon be arriving at the Edinburgh Waverly station. Please ensure you take all your belongings with you as you disembark the train."

Sherlock jerked forward in his seat. His neck pulled him back sharply, before turning towards the window in his train car. Rows of yellowing green fields stretched out across the landscape before him.

Sherlock rubbed his eyes and withdrew his phone from his pocket. The screen lit up quickly, flashing the time and date: 7:36 am. June 2nd.

"No. No," he repeated adamantly to himself. _This isn't right._

He turned towards the aisle to see the cheery man from the day before in his horrid blue business suit.

"Morning."

"No!" Sherlock rose abruptly and pushed himself into the aisle.

Rows of passengers looked up in alarm as the groggy man made his way to the car's vestibule. A train official stood waiting by the door preparing for arrival.

"We're almost in Edinburgh," he told Sherlock in a strong Scottish accent. "If you could take your seat and wait till the train comes to a stop, please."

Sherlock pushed onward, into the final car and leaned over a set of empty seats. Out the window he saw Waverly station coming into view and cursed.

"Excuse me." He leaned forward, speaking to the lady ahead of him. "What day is it?"

She looked back at him confused. "June 2nd. You took the overnight train, sir."

"I know I did. I took it yesterday!"

She shrugged and went back to the phone in her lap. Tired of this nonsense, Sherlock stalked back to his car, where the passengers there were just gathering up their belongings. The businessman smiled Sherlock's direction when he returned.

"Long trip isn't it?"

Sherlock breathed in and out slowly.

"Did you ride this train yesterday?" Sherlock asked, gripping the seat in front of the man.

The man shook his head just in time for the train to lurch forward a bit and come to a stop. "I don't think so." He pondered it for a moment, before a site out the window behind Sherlock caught his attention. "That's odd."

"I don't have time for this." Sherlock opened the bin above him and grabbed his travel bag. With a sudden swoosh, he was headed down the car and out onto the platform below.


	2. Déjà Vu

"Did you ride this train yesterday?" Sherlock asked, gripping the seat in front of the man.

The man shook his head just in time for the train to lurch forward a bit and come to a stop. "I don't think so." He pondered it for a moment, before a site out the window behind Sherlock caught his attention. "That's odd."

"I don't have time for this." Sherlock opened the bin above him and grabbed his travel bag. With a sudden swoosh, he was headed down the car and out onto the platform below.

* * *

Sherlock chose to forgo the coffee and hailed for a cab immediately after leaving the station.

A thin and bony gentleman looked back through the rear-view mirror at Sherlock in the cab and grinned. "Where're ye headed?"

"BioTech labs; off of South Gyle Broadway."

"Mm. Yes." The cabbie gave Sherlock one final glance back, before pulling the car out of park and pulling out into the traffic.

Morning rush hour was just kicking into swing outside the station and it took the cab almost five minutes to leave the area. Sherlock retrieved his mobile from his pocket and sent a quick text off to John.

 **Where are you right this very moment? –SH**

"Rough mornin'?" the cabbie asked, diverting Sherlock away from his phone.

"Mhm," Sherlock replied, giving the man's question not much attention or thought. "It is Monday today, eh?"

The cabbie chuckled. "Course –all day."

"The 2nd of June?"

"Yeah…" The cabbie shot Sherlock a worried glance. "Ye 'kay?"

"I don't know," he answered truthfully.

"Ye still want to go to this BioTech labs?"

"Yes."

"Or maybe the hospital?"

Sherlock scoffed. "I'm not sick."

"If you say so." The man returned both eyes to the road and pulled sharply into another roundabout, pushing Sherlock against the side door.

John and the others were waiting outside the entrance when the cab pulled up. He paid promptly and hopped out with his bag.

"Look who's here on time," Lestrade commented to the others, just loud enough for Sherlock to hear.

Sherlock ignored the comment and approached John. "What's everyone doing here?" His eyes glanced over each member of the group until they stopped at Molly. She'd been rocking back and forth on her feet, staring off into space, when her eyes met Sherlock's and she turned away from him. Sherlock harrumphed.

"I don't think I understand your question, mate." John lowered his voice. "Is this what that message from earlier is about?"

Sherlock turned away from John without a response and paced. When he returned, his eyes were downcast and worried.

"What's this about?" John tried again.

"I need to go to the doctors, John."

"You sick?"

"No!"

Everyone turned to see what the outburst was about.

"Let's go in. Shall we?" Lestrade said, starting towards the door.

Sherlock held back, but John moved forward, tired of Sherlock's strange behaviour.

"John! I need to speak with you." Sherlock caught up with his friend, his teeth grinding together at the end of each syllable.

"We have a case, Sherlock. Can't it wait?"

"No, it can't. I'm serious. Something is wrong with this. I think something may be wrong with me."

John punched him lightly in the shoulder. "We already knew that, man."

Sherlock was growing more frustrated by the second. Lestrade had paused by the front doors up ahead and stood waiting for the two.

"We'll be inside when you're done with whatever this is." Lestrade motioned to the two of them, then closed the door behind him.

John pulled Sherlock off the main walk as two employees passed them in matching BioTech lab coats.

"Stop skirting around the truth and just tell me what's going on? Is it about the case? Are you upset with me?"

"No, to both." Sherlock looked appalled at the thought. "I think there may be something seriously wrong with me, John."

John waited, as if to say _go on_.

"This is going to sound crazy, but I'm having serious déjà vu."

"With what? The case? No, not the case."

"John!"

"Yeah?"

"I've lived this day before."

"How so? Was there a similar case in Edinburgh before, or…"

"No, I'm trying to tell you that I've lived this exact same day –the 2nd of June- twice now."

"Huh." John stuck his hands in the pockets of his dark blue trousers. "And the first time wasn't a dream?" A pause. "No, wait! How do you know that this isn't a dream?"

Sherlock withdrew his phone from his pocket and began reading through the emails. "It's not a dream," he confirmed. "You can't read screens in your dreams."

"How 'bout yesterday. Was it a dream?"

Sherlock pondered the idea, trying to recall a detail that would discredit it. "I remember getting off the train and then I ordered a coffee in a shop nearby," he paused to smile cheekily to himself. "Lestrade complained about my tardiness upon arriving here and… I remember this place so vividly."

"Maybe you remembered it from case pictures or when you googled for directions?"

Sherlock nodded in thought.

"What else?"

"We talked to the site manager and a couple employees that worked with the victim, which led nowhere. We visited the mother of the victim and Lestrade got mad at me for the questions I asked her."

"Not so far fetched," John commented.

Sherlock shot him a pointed look. "They weren't that bad."

"Everything else was pretty normal. You four had dinner at the hotel and I retreated to my mind palace before taking the train back."

"And none of these dream rules were broken?"

Sherlock gave him one of those 'you're not being helpful' looks and pushed on. "No, I don't think so."

They stood outside in the humid mid-morning sun, thinking.

"Can you even retreat to your mind palace in a dream?"

"I don't know," Sherlock replied in earnest.

A different thought," John began," has anything, that was out of your control, happened exactly how it did yesterday –today?"

"No. But I chose to do it differently."

John hummed, mostly for Sherlock's benefit. "Well, let's just go in there and if it happens exactly how you dreamed it, then we'll go from there."

"I have this odd feeling that it wasn't a dream though."

John nodded along absentmindedly, humoring him, while they walked up the path to meet the others.

The rest of the morning carried along normally –or in other words, very different from how it'd gone down the first time he'd lived this day. Lestrade was already finished talking to the site manager when he and John met back up with the group. Molly and Anderson were in the main lab looking around for any samples that could be matched to the victim's odd pathogen and Lestrade was discussing good places for lunch with the pretty, blonde secretary.

"And that's not too far from here?" Lestrade asked the woman.

She smiled, clean white teeth behind rosy pink lips, and nodded. "I'm going on break in an hour if you'd like to join me?"

Lestrade was beginning to nod his head yes, when Sherlock came up behind him to rain on his little blonde parade.

"We should get going. We need to talk to the mother before she leaves on her errands."

"Yes. Of course," Lestrade replied, begrudgingly.

Sherlock was already stalking off towards the lab to grab Anderson and Molly, when Lestrade's brow knitted in confusion. "What errands?"

"Are you almost done in here?" Sherlock stuck his head through the door to the main lab.

Anderson was first to turn, currently hunched over a counter in the back. "Yes." He paused. "But only because I actually am and not because you want me to be."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Where's Molly?"

Anderson smirked. "She's in the back closet."

Sherlock cleared the front doors as they swung back behind him. A stainless steel door in the back corner with a viewing window taking up the top half was ajar with a tiny brown plimsoll shoe propping it open. He could hear Molly talking to herself as he neared.

"A128S: check. A340A: check."

"Molly."

She looked up to see the consulting detective holding the door to the narrow closet open with more light from the outside coming in.

"There is this modern invention called the light bulb." Sherlock flashed her a wicked grin and reached up to switch the light on. There was a click, but the long room remained in partial darkness.

"It's burnt out," she informed him, quite pleased to prove him foolish.

Sherlock hummed, looking over the section of samples she'd been filing through in the cabinet labeled 'gram-positive & spore forming.'

"Any of these match the sample from our victim?" he asked with genuine interest –his brutish façade lifting for a moment.

"Would I still be going through these, if one did?"

"That's a no then?"

She scowled and her lips drew into a thin line, almost vanishing entirely. He wondered briefly what else could cover those lips, making them disappear, before she coughed loudly.

"I'm almost done. I don't think the sample we're looking for is here. If you could just wait outside, please."

He turned away, both embarrassed for his blatant staring and being in a state of vulnerability itself.

"Yes, of course," he complied softly.

She shook her head at the retreating man before her, forcing herself to tear her eyes away.

An hour later, the four of them, after dropping Molly off at the hotel, pulled up in a cab at the mother's house. The neighbourhood was older and Sherlock sensed something oddly familiar about it, despite the surrounding area looking very much the same as this one.

He was staring off into space, waiting for someone else to pay the cab fare, when a bright blue Civic caught Sherlock's attention. He nudged John as he was gathering his things.

"What?" he whispered, though it came out more like a hiss.

"The car; I remember that car from yesterday. And this pathway." Sherlock looked down at the cement below his feet that led up to the townhouse.

"You sure?"

"Absolutely."

"And you've never been here before? Never searched the area on Google maps or something?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and John held his hands up in surrender. "Fine, fine. That is weird."

An older lady in her 60s answered the door and welcomed the group in. Instantly, the day before came back to him in a rush. The messy living room floor and the giant smart TV on the back wall, the orange settee he'd sat on nearly 24 hours before and the dark oak clock on the wall behind them.

John was sitting on the sofa between Lestrade and Anderson, so Sherlock waited patiently. He couldn't be bothered to question the state of the place or her involvement in her son's life. Lestrade's rudimentary questions flitted by like the thin seconds hand on the lock as Sherlock ignored the group's discussion.

"Sherlock?"

"Sherlock!"

He looked up to see Lestrade's eyes trained on him.

"Hmm?" he asked.

"Do you have any questions for Miss Elliot?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Well, I think that's it. Thank you for your help."

The four men filed out of the house one by one until Lestrade was on the front path calling for a cab.

"Call for two," Sherlock asked, when Lestrade had pulled the phone away from his mouth.

"You going somewhere, Sherlock?" John asked from beside him.

"Yes. We are indeed."

A doctor not much older than Molly stuck up Sherlock's x-rays on the board before her. John stood beside Sherlock, getting a look at them for himself.

"Good news," the doctor told him. "No tumours. At least from what I can see here." She clicked the pen in her front pocket absentmindedly as John looked over the scans as well.

"She's right, Sherlock. They're clean."

"If you're really concerned, you can always schedule an MRI up at the front desk."

"When will that be?"

"We can probably get you in, I'd say, in a couple weeks at the earliest."

Sherlock huffed, annoyed.

"You could try asking your regular doctor. NHS clinics aren't always the fastest."

Sherlock waved her down.

"What's the problem?" John asked as they headed back to the front waiting area.

"It's no good."

"What? A couple weeks? Do we even know you have a tumour?"

"I need it today, John!"

"You think you're going to repeat today again?" he asked, not totally convinced.

"Yes!"

"Well, we'll talk about that tomorrow."

"You don't understand. There won't be a tomorrow if this happens again. You probably won't even remember."

"And you're 100% positive that yesterday wasn't a dream."

Sherlock walked ahead of his friend and exchanged information with the man at front desk.

"Yes," Sherlock bit back while the man typed in Sherlock's insurance information.

"I think you might be overreacting a bit."

"What?"

"You can be quite the drama queen sometimes. Is this cause I haven't spent as much time with you since the wedding?"

"No." Sherlock opened the door for John and stepped outside. Low streaks of darkened blue and gray clouds cascaded across the early evening sky. Sherlock looked up, the image stored in his mind palace, and walked towards the street to flag down a cab.

"If you are to experience this day over again." John tilted his back, finding another streak coloured red from the sun. "Then be thankful it's on a day as nice as this."

"Thanks for the thought."

John patted his friend on the back. "I'm sure that when you wake up tomorrow morning, you'll be on the London bound train somewhere between the city and Newcastle. It'll be raining out the window, without a glimpse of sunlight, and you'll be thankful you got to live this beautiful day twice."

Sherlock nodded to himself, doubtful.

"I shall be so lucky," Sherlock replied.

"Drinks before you're set to leave?" John asked when their cab pulled up.

"Why not? It's not like I'll feel it in the morning."

John laughed right out. "That's the spirit."

 _Ding_

A pause.

 _Ding_

"Good morning ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to Edinburgh. We will soon be arriving at the Edinburgh Waverly station. Please ensure you take all your belongings with you as you disembark the train."


	3. With Little Consequence

_Ding_

A pause.

 _Ding_

"Good morning ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to Edinburgh. We will soon be arriving at the Edinburgh Waverley station. Please ensure you take all your belongings with you as you disembark the train."

* * *

Like a bad dream, Sherlock sat forward in the first class seat and took his bearings in with trepidation.

"Fuck," he spoke in a hushed voice.

The businessman in that same crappy blue suit turned towards Sherlock with a goofy grin.

"Morning. Forget to turn the kettle off?" he joked.

Sherlock harrumphed and gave the man a forced smile. After a second the expression went slack and for the first time since he'd found himself in this special, particular situation, he realized that it didn't matter what he did or how he treated anyone. A sinking feeling took over his chest, but he stood, before the train had come to a complete stop, and shrugged it off.

Ignoring the grunts and offhanded comments from the passengers around him, Sherlock pushed his way off the train and made a beeline for the station entrance. He leaned into the street, dark navy derby shoes balancing on the edge of the curb, and waved down a cab. A line of them about twenty meters back, picking up travelers from the station, passed by, accelerating away from him. Without thought, Sherlock crossed during a break in traffic, sauntering across with his bag slung over slouched shoulders. A couple car horns blared, but he ignored them. With a pleased smile, Sherlock quickly waved down a cab and swung in. His driver was neither talkative nor imposing, so Sherlock sat back in peace.

He considered foregoing the whole BioTech lab ordeal in the first place, but honestly had nowhere to go nor anything else to do. Pushing himself up from his seat for a second, he pulled his mobile out from his side pocket and scrolled through his messages. He knew from experience, that nothing new would pop up, but he held onto a miniscule chance that somehow, something he'd done differently that day would effectively result in his best friend messaging him or even a junk email coming in, but there was nothing.

Like clockwork, his group was waiting for him on the pathway in front of the labs.

"Look who's here on time," Lestrade commented with a teasing smile.

Sherlock laughed. The others glanced over at Sherlock –surprised he'd acknowledged Lestrade's comment. But it wasn't the joke that had tempted the sullen man's guffaw, but the sheer disbelief that everything was repeating itself, once again.

John approached Sherlock then, as the others started for the door, and produced a bemused smile.

"What's got you in this… mood?"

Sherlock peered sceptically at his friend.

"You don't know, do you?" Sherlock sighed and dug his hands into his trouser pockets.

"Know what?" John's face fell, confused.

Sherlock shook his head with a pained laugh. "Nothing at all." He motioned for the lab doors. "Shall we?"

The routine inside reminded him of primary school growing up. His year 3 teacher, Mrs. Goff, had to send forms into the district to approve of any non-educational movie played during class. This meant that every time Mrs. Goff was gone for the day, the appointed sub would select at random, one of five VHS tapes from Mrs.'s Goff's _library._ By the end of the year, Sherlock's tally on movies played was highly skewed towards Star Wars episode five, played a total of nine times, while Robin Hood finished off at a lowly two.

"We have eight full time lab technicians that worked in the South lab and ten in the North," the site manager rattled off.

Sherlock felt himself mouthing along with everyone's part in the conversation. He pondered briefly how large the June 2nd, 2014 room would be, in his mind palace, by the time this conundrum was finished –if it ever would.

The site manager had just answered Lestrade's question on Scott's working relationships, when Sherlock felt John elbow him hard in the ribs. With a flinch, he drew back and narrowed his eyes at John.

"What?" he asked sharply.

The two turned away from the Lestrade's conversation and bickered with hushed voices.

"Whatever you're trying to do, just stop."

"I'm not doing anything."

John made the motion of putting his foot down, but Sherlock just shook his head, unwilling.

"Yes you are. You're mouthing along with everything they're saying."

Sherlock shaped his mouth into an 'o' and grimaced.

"Habit," he replied, unconvincingly.

John wasn't pleased with his answer and grabbed his forearm. "Just because being rude is a bad habit of yours, doesn't mean that it's an acceptable excuse."

"Not the rude part." Sherlock scowled. "I meant the mouthing along. I did it all the time when my year 3 class would watch Star Wars."

John blanked. "How is this like watching Star Wars?"

"Because I know everything that they're going to say!" Sherlock turned and looked directly at Lestrade and the manager who hadn't stopped talking, despite their side conversation.

There it was, out of the bag already, and it wasn't even lunch-time yet.

"You know what they're going to say ahead of time?" Flabbergasted, John looked on with amusement. "Alright, Mr. Psychic, show me."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm not psychic, John."

"What then? Receiving premonitions?" John mocked him, making ghost noises.

"No. I've just lived this day before." It came out as if things like this happened everyday.

It was almost too much for John. With his strong grip on Sherlock's arm, he pulled the consulting detective over to the side near the office door.

"Is this a joke?"

Sherlock look down, shaking his head. He could just hear the tail end Lestrade's conversation and focused in, recalling where the discussion had gone since he'd turned away.

"Could I get a schedule of Scott's deliveries from the past month?" Lestrade requested.

"Sure. They're mostly to our sister lab in London, though," Sherlock spoke alongside with the manager at a whisper.

John's mouth hung open, speechless.

This time, Sherlock beat Lestrade to his own side-handed comment. "Still pertinent, though, Mr. Rhodes."

"How are you doing this?"

"Same day, over and over again. I told you about this yesterday… Well, technically it was today –yesterday's today." Sherlock eyes lit up and he suddenly dug through his pocket in search of his phone. He slid it open and scrolled through to find the message he'd sent John yesterday, but it was gone.

"What?" His friend peered over his shoulder in anticipation. "What am I looking at here?"

"Nothing," Sherlock spat, aggravated. "Nothing at all."

Anderson appeared on the other side of the door just then and pulled it open. Jumping back, he shrugged off the fright and shuffled past John and Sherlock.

"Molly and I are done in the lab. Didn't find anything notable," he said to Lestrade.

The detective inspector nodded, thanked Mr. Rhodes for his time, and retrieved Scott's papers from the printer.

"The mother's house then?" Lestrade pulled his phone out to call for a cab.

Molly's cab pulled up first out front of the labs and she left the group with a nod in their direction.

"Is she always this moody?" Sherlock bit the inside of cheek, realizing his mistake the moment the words had left his lips.

"What? The past week you mean?" Lestrade asked, incredulously.

John waved Lestrade down and he went quiet.

"What?" Sherlock demanded. They were keeping something from him.

"Nothing." John looked up to see another black cab pulling into the car park and walked up to greet it.

"Tell me what this is about?" Sherlock pulled Anderson aside as the others piled in.

Anderson's face went pale. "It's not my news to share, mate."

Sherlock blew out a long breath and took the passenger's seat.

"I think I may be onto something," Sherlock lied when they'd been driving for about ten minutes. "There should be a café just off this side street up here," he instructed the driver.

"Where you going?"

"I need to think, John."

John sighed and reached into his pocket for a room key. "Let yourself in when you get back, 'kay?"

Sherlock took it and stepped out of the car, swinging the door shut with a thud.

"Same final address then?" the cabbie asked.

"Please," Lestrade replied from behind the man.

"Can I sit up front then?" Anderson asked from the middle seat.

It was late when John finally headed up to his room. Slightly inebriated, the three men had shared some drinks at the hotel bar before retiring.

"Sherlock?" John called as he knocked on the door to his room.

No one answered. John looked down at his watch and noticed that Sherlock still had over an hour till his train left. Where was the man?

John took the elevator back down to the foyer and walked up to the lady behind the front desk.

"Hi." He smiled. She was pretty. "Oh, right, yes. 'Ave you seen a tall man… 'Bout this high." He measured Sherlock's height, sticking his hand high in the air. "-dark brown curly hair. Bit of an arse, too."

The lady shook her head with the same fake smiled plastered on her face.

John rubbed his chin and turned away from the lady, surveying the room. No Sherlock in site.

"Well it looks like I'm going to need a new key."

The lady smiled still. "Of course, sir. Happens all the time. Can I get your name and room number?"

"John Watson. 439."

She typed his info in, her eye contact never wavering. "Can I see an ID?"

John happily obliged.

"Relationship problems?" She pouted –the second type of expression she seemed capable of.

"No." John shook his head adamantly. "I'm happily married –to a woman."

Just then, the phone rung behind the counter and the other receptionist answered. "Does he work here?" Then inaudible babbling from the speaker. "Can you handle him or should we get security?"

John slid down the counter and stuck his hand across to get the man's attention. "Is he tall with dark hair?"

The receptionist held his finger up to silence John.

"Ask whoever it is, if this man will answer to Sherlock," John tried again.

The receptionist held the phone to his right breast pocket and looked expectantly at John.

"You know this man?" he pointed at the receiver.

John nodded with a scowl. "Regrettably. Where is he?"

"Out back near the kitchen. You'll have to go 'round back."

John nodded, accepted the new key card from the other receptionist, and stalked away.

In the alley, out back, Sherlock Holmes leaned back on the stoop door to the kitchen with a disgruntled employee on the phone across from him.

"I don't have the patience for this," John spoke to himself, under his breath.

He caught up to his friend and pulled the consulting detective up by the lapels on his suit jacket.

"You're high," he muttered. "Shocker."

Sherlock stumbled forward with hazy eyes. His sleeves were rolled up and the top two buttons on his oxford button up, missing.

"Hi, John." He turned to the kitchen staff on the phone. "John's my friend."

"I apologize for this, sir." John slipped the man a tenner and dragged Sherlock down the alley.

"What were you thinking, Sherlock? We're on a case."

"Who cares?"

"What?" John came to a halt before they reached street.

"It doesn't matter!" he yelled out. "None of this matters."

John's face went grave and he grabbed Sherlock by his arm and looked him in the eye. "Sherlock. Don't lie to me, here. Are you thinking of ending your own life? You know there are people here that care for you, right?"

"I couldn't if I tried." He pondered the thought for a second. "At least I don't think I could." He broke free from John's grip and went around the front of the hotel.

"Sherlock!" John jogged to keep up.

He smiled maniacally at his friend, key card in one hand and wallet in the other.

With a salute, Sherlock closed his eyes tight and leapt off the curb into traffic. The smell of diesel fuel and burnt rubber registered in Sherlock's nose, before he sprung forward with a jolt.

 _Ding_

A pause.

 _Ding_

"Good morning ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to Edinburgh. We will soon be arriving at the Edinburgh Waverley station. Please ensure you take all your belongings with you as you disembark the train."


	4. Stuck

With a salute, Sherlock closed his eyes tight and leapt off the curb into traffic. The smell of diesel fuel and burnt rubber registered in Sherlock's nose, before he sprung forward with a jolt.

 _Ding_

A pause.

 _Ding_

"Good morning ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to Edinburgh. We will soon be arriving at the Edinburgh Waverley station. Please ensure you take all your belongings with you as you disembark the train."

* * *

"Ha!" Sherlock exclaimed.

The businessman jumped at Sherlock's outburst and noticed as the strange man beside him patted down his body like he'd just survived a car accident.

"You all right there?"

Sherlock turned to him then and smirked, waiting for more. "No marks, either," he noted, looking at his forearms.

"Where are you headed?" he asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "Edinburgh it would seem, but who cares now?"

He smiled weakly and turned away from the odd man.

"If you could die and come back to life the next day, what would you do?"

The businessman found this question even more suspicious and his jovial spirit died down all together. "Uh. I'd probably donate my organs for transplants."

Sherlock deadpanned. "Boring. So boring," he drawled.

The train was coming to a stop now and the inside of the car darkened.

"How about by train?"

"Sorry?" the man asked, his eyes locked on Sherlock despite those around them standing.

"Death by train impact."

The businessman turned white and stood abruptly with briefcase in hand.

Sherlock chuckled, watching as the man stumbled out of the car, briefcase banging against the seats and other passengers around him.

A train official with bags under his eyes and long, scruffy hair, walked up behind Sherlock.

"Problem sir?"

Sherlock shook his head and walked off the train.

"You forgot your bag, sir!" the official called after him, but Sherlock was already stepping off.

With his head on a swivel, he jumped down onto the tracks of the rail on the other side of the platform and started jogging out, the sunlight soon above him. It really was a marvellous day.

Sherlock heard a few yells from behind him as an official spotted him, but he increased his pace, breathing laboured, and made it out to where grass had begun to sneak up and through the loose stones along the rails.

The sun beat steadily down on Sherlock from the east, without a cloud in site.

"Come on train!" he shouted to the expanse of farmland creeping up on him as he ran farther out.

When fifteen minutes had passed with no train, Sherlock stepped off the tracks to the side and sat down on a fence that had toppled over. A bush had already grown around the far end of it and withering grass reached halfway up Sherlock's trousers. _Why am I doing this?_

He stood with impatience and no interest in retracing his steps. A rumble below his feet however, told him there was a train nearby. A passenger one, speeding along the other set of tracks that Sherlock had ridden for three days in a row, was approaching fast. Sherlock pushed his suit jacket off both shoulders, leaving it the gravel below, and made a dash to towards the oncoming train nearly 15 meters away.

The conductor, halfway through communicating with the station coming up, failed to notice the tall man in black trousers and a white button up, running at full speed towards his tracks. He turned to the other official beside him to play the automated message, when Sherlock hit the train head on, going 125 mph.

"What do we have?"

"Male, late thirties," the paramedic informed Ted Stevens, an ER nurse who'd just finished off two night shifts in a row.

"Drug overdose," the paramedic continued walking alongside the gurney. "A bystander called it in when she found him passed out a few blocks north of Waverly station."

"Status?"

"Less than 40 bpm, he's-"

"He's going into respiratory arrest."

Another nurse in purple pulled the gurney up to a set of monitors as the others barked off orders.

"His CNS is failing," one said, stepping up from behind the paramedic.

"We need an airway opened," -a shout from another.

"His pumps are failing," -more desperate this time.

"No pulse. Starting CPR," Ted said, stepping up to Sherlock.

"1 milligram of epinephrine."

"Switching," the nurse in purple called out as Ted switched to ventilation.

"40 units of vasopressin."

"Two minutes till shock."

The sound of wheels against linoleum tile made Ted step back to let the code nurse takeover.

"Stay on the chest… on… and off." The AED charged before releasing a shock. "Stay on the chest… on… and off."

By ten minutes, Ted's arms were sore and the long hours from the last two days were taking its toll.

"Continue compressions… Continue compressions…. Continue compressions…"

 _Ding_

A pause.

 _Ding_

"Good morning ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to Edinburgh. We will soon be arriving at the Edinburgh Waverly station. Please ensure you take all your belongings with you as you disembark the train."

Sherlock took in a deep breath and pulsed. Ghost pains and vibrations, residual from the day before, flooded his body. He rested his hand over his heart to find it still beating and visibly relaxed.

"Morning."

"Hospitals are rubbish," he told the businessman, right off the bat.

He laughed deeply. "Yes. I'd have to agree."

"Where is the nearest one, mind you?"

"The nearest hospital?" the man asked, his feet readjusting awkwardly underneath his seat.

"Yes, the nearest hospital."

"The Royal's not too far from here. Is that why you're here?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock had already drawn his attention away from the man to send a quick message off to Lestrade.

The train came to a stop and the passengers around them began to stand and gather their things.

"I asked if you are visiting someone in the hospital, here."

"Oh." Sherlock stood, glancing down at his phone intermittently. "No, I'm not." He gave the businessman a tight-lipped smile and side stepped into the aisle behind him.

"That's odd," he heard, as if on cue from the man beside him.

He was about to reply with a sarcastic jab, when his phone screen lit up with a call from the detective inspector.

"Excuse me. Must take this." Sherlock pointed to his phone, before answering.

"Geoff… Yes, whatever. Major case breakthrough. Meet me outside the front of ERI… Forget BioTech. Bring everyone."

Sherlock stepped off the train and made his way to the main corridor of the station. Waiting outside of a small sub shop near the departures board, Sherlock withdrew his phone to locate the hospital.

"Three stories tall… two stories tall… What's that, four?" he asked, aggravated at his phone.

Somewhere between his last few attempts at death, the routine had lost all forms of novelty. Not even recreating his fake suicide from the roof of another hospital seemed amusing anymore.

An incessant automated voice called over the intercom, alerting passengers of the next departure. Sherlock looked up, to snarl at the nuisance, when a thought struck him.

Just like that, he broke off into a jog through the mass of stunned travelers, watching this man in a finely trimmed suit, deek this way and that, making his way to the travel centre.

"Are there any seats still available for the 8 o'clock train to London?"

A girl in her early twenties standing behind the counter, slipped her mobile back into the side pocket of her uniform, and looked up at Sherlock, bored.

"The 8 o'clock to London?" she repeated.

"Yes." He turned to check the board to see if it had left yet.

"We do. Just coach left though. Is that fine?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yeah. Yes, that's fine."

She printed the ticket, taking her sweet time, and looked up to see four £50 notes in the window.

"The ticket comes to 151 pounds." She slid him the ticket. "Give me a moment and I can-"

Sherlock snatched the ticket up and left.

"-get you your change."

Sherlock fell asleep again on the train ride back to London. At just past 11 o'clock in the afternoon, the clicking of the train making a stop in York woke Sherlock from his sleep. In his stupor, his left leg jerked forward and kicked the seat back in front of him. He looked around the coach car; noted the seat beside him was empty and that the train was nowhere close to Edinburgh now. He visibly relaxed. It was the first time in a while that he'd woken from sleep to the sound of something other than the Waverley station announcement.

There were three new messages, two missed calls, and a voicemail on his phone. He felt guilty for a moment, leaving his team hanging on the case. _His_ team _?_

 _It won't even matter,_ he consoled himself. _Nothing about today is ever permanent._

By the time he made it back to Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson was waiting on the top steps of the first floor landing.

"You're here." She didn't let him inside his flat and instead led him back downstairs with a firm grip on his sleeve.

"Mrs. Hudson!" He shook himself free.

"You're supposed to be in Scotland, with John." She opened the door to her flat and picked up a cordless phone from its docking station, inside the kitchen.

He recognized the pitches on each of the buttons dialled, collectively, as John's mobile number.

"You needn't call him," he interjected.

"And why not?" She brought the receiver away from her ear, to look up at him, displeased.

"I already did," he lied.

She hung the phone up and held her hand out. "Let's see it then; your phone."

Sherlock felt its outline within the wool fabric of his trouser pocket.

"I called him from a phone box at the station."

"Oh pish posh. Sherlock Holmes, tell me the truth."

"It's complicated," he replied, avoiding the question.

He picked up his travel bag from the hall outside her door and ascended the stairs to his flat.

Mrs. Hudson gave up, shaking her head. "He's here John… No, he won't tell me anything."

With a sigh, Sherlock relaxed back into his chair. Gone was that horrible suit he'd been wearing for the past week or so and replaced with his dark blue dressing gown. He closed his eyes briefly and retreated into his mind palace. At half past 11 at night, he resigned his position on the sofa and went to the kitchen to retrieve a bag of crisps from the cupboard above the sink.

Despite the exhaustion encasing him like a persistent stomach flu, Sherlock willed himself to stay awake. He'd played through two concertos on his violin and even watched a bit of crap telly. But as the minutes ticked by, the time getting closer and closer to midnight, Sherlock grew restless.

He stomped around the living room, munching on the partially stale crisps, and waited, and waited, until the hour drew to a close.

Wincing, with his eyes closed, and hair on end, Sherlock waited for the chime of the clock. On schedule, it struck 12 and the world around him stayed put. With the beat of his heart slowing considerably, he sank back into the couch and closed his eyes.

"Welcome home," he told himself, just a moment too soon.

 _Ding_

A pause.

 _Ding_

"Good morning ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to Edinburgh. We will soon be arriving at the Edinburgh Waverley station. Please ensure you take all your belongings with you as you disembark the train."

Striding down Prince Street, without a thought of what he was planning to do, Sherlock stopped abruptly amidst the mass of people and looked around. He'd been here before; he'd walked this way at this exact time. He turned around and ambled backwards, taking in the buildings beyond the throng of commuters, when a voice, shrill and familiar, yelled from behind him.

"Are you kidding me?" The lady behind the stroller with two toddlers gaped at Sherlock.

He felt a faint twinge of pain coming from his calf and looked down to see the imprint of the stroller's front bumper on his leg.

She'd begun to wipe the spilled coffee from her blouse, fuming, when Sherlock sidestepped the woman and kept going. Past stores and restaurants and banks. Past a gym, a row of offices, and an official looking government building on the corner. He was stuck in a limitless world, constrained by time. How far would he make it if he booked a flight right now to the other side of the world? A world without permanent consequences was a world without permanent rewards. He could kill a man and live to see another day, a free man. He could rob a bank and escape to France, but see none of the rewards the following morning. He could… He could steal a police car.

Teetering between the sidewalk and the street, Sherlock kept an inconspicuous eye on a cop who'd just stepped out of his car to talk to another officer walking by. When both turned a blind eye to the partially ajar door of the car, Sherlock broke off into a sprint and jumped inside. He had less than ten seconds to get the car in drive and pull away. He did it in five.

In the rear-view mirror, one enraged bobby yelled inaudibly at Sherlock, while the other spoke into his radio urgently.

Horns blared as Sherlock drove down the middle of street -past five story buildings, side streets, and pedestrians who only glanced up briefly to watch the crazed man driving in a police car through traffic, before returning to their far more important lives.

From a major road off to the right, two police cars joined Sherlock with sirens blaring behind him.

"This has been fun," Sherlock commented, despite himself being the sole occupant.

Up ahead, the street diverged in two, and Sherlock pushed on, over the curb, and into the front display of a jewellery store. The chaos and noise around him masked the alarm system blaring in the not yet open store. Scattered glass shards sparkled brighter than the rings and necklaces adorning half collapsed shelves and shattered cases.

Sherlock sat back, feeling pains arise at various points on his body, and pushed the air bag aside to the fix the collar of his suit. His right arm flared out in pain and he gave up with his dishevelled clothes.

As he felt his world around him fading, sounds of footsteps over crunching debris drew nearer.

Sherlock woke, stiff and sore. He kept his eyes closed, waiting for the train announcement, but it never came. Instead, he heard John and Lestrade's voices bickering above him.

"I don't know. They said he had neither drugs nor alcohol in his system."

John.

"Well, can you even begin to explain this then?"

Lestrade.

"I need to run through his vitals, excuse me gentlemen."

A nurse.

Sherlock waited till the sounds of retreating footsteps left the room to open his eyes.

The nurse above him smiled, despite the obvious concern and doubt behind her congenial countenance. His eyes flickered over to the door of the hospital room where an officer stood, leaning lazily against the glass.

"You've got two hairline fractures in your arm and an oblique fracture in your leg, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock looked down to his legs where the outlines of bandages peeked through the sheet.

"Two broken ribs and a concussion as well."

Sherlock sighed, frustrated with himself. He regretted doing so immediately when his chest flared up in pain.

"It's going to hurt for a while," the nurse commented, before exiting out of the computer to his left and leaving the room.

"Or just another 12 hours," Sherlock muttered.

The officer standing outside his room came in then and spoke briefly with Sherlock. He was stuck in the hospital until deemed well enough. In the meantime, a few more officers would be in to question him, before his offenses were formally written up. With a discontented nod, Sherlock agreed to the officer's instructions, and the room, solely occupied once again, fell back into a steady hum.

Sherlock fell asleep occasionally and tried to ignore the frequent commotion from the ER in the meantime, when he heard another familiar voice speaking to the officer outside of the room.

She peaked her head in cautiously, before advancing fully into the room. The walls were a pasty white, cleaned over and over again with disinfectants. A lone chair with uneven legs sat across from Sherlock's bed, taking up the remaining space in the single room.

"Sometimes, Sherlock, I really worry."

Unaware that he was awake, she walked around his bed, not stopping to sit, and waited in the far corner by the window. He could tell she was hovering above him, obstructing the light from the sun on his face.

"A cry for attention perhaps…"

Sherlock twitched as he felt her hand ghost over his cheek. She removed it quickly.

"Do you really think I'm that daft?" she asked.

For a moment, he believed that she was referring to his pseudo-sleeping, but she continued.

"Don't play dumb with me Sherlock. Not after everything that's happened. I know you know that you're the reason my engagement is over."

Sherlock did everything in his power not to respond -to keep his face expressionless.

"Yet you act like I'm the odd one here, for being down about it. It's like you're gloating." She laughed, despite the situation, almost to spite herself.

"But there's something else." She lingered by his side and took his pale, cut up hand, in hers. "I know you won't say. I know you'll deny it. But there's something off with you." A pause.

"Maybe you're just looking for the attention. But maybe there's more."

With a final sigh and squeeze of his hand, she walked from the room and was gone.


	5. The Flaw in his Plan

"But there's something else." She lingered by his side and took his pale, cut up hand, in hers. "I know you won't say. I know you'll deny it. But there's something off with you." A pause.

"Maybe you're just looking for the attention. But maybe there's more."

With a final sigh and squeeze of his hand , she walked from the room and was gone.

* * *

Sherlock mulled over Molly's words long after he'd fallen asleep in the hospital bed, woken up on the train again, and decided that today, for his well being, he would not brutally injure himself.

She stood outside BioTech labs, slightly detached from the other three, waiting for him to arrive. Though he knew not for a fact, he assumed the four had rode together to the labs earlier. Maybe five minutes before -twenty at most, based on their only minor restlessness. He considered briefly where he'd be now if he wouldn't have been so stubborn and childish -if he'd agreed to travel with them the day before. If karma was really against him, he'd have been lounging on his sofa at 221b, seven days from now or wherever he considered himself to be at this moment. Time had lost all linear characteristics a week ago.

"We're here, sir," the young cabbie told Sherlock.

Sherlock handed the man a few notes and stepped out, shutting the door behind him. He watched the group, some paces away, divert their attention towards him. He remained unmoving from the spot and could only barely make out Lestrade's jab at Sherlock's arrival time.

It was funny how the DI managed to pull the same decidedly humourless joke every time he repeated the day, but he never got the same cabbie twice. It seemed to Sherlock that certain events in June 2nd's timeline were easy to change, with a mere second's difference, while other ones would take major diverges in routine.

"Everything all right?" John walked over to Sherlock. "Eh, mate?"

Sherlock nodded with a straight face. "Course."  
The five of them made their way up the path and into the lab. It was the first time that Sherlock had ever gone in with them all together. Molly and Anderson asked the receptionist, a young blonde woman, where the main lab was and Lestrade and John started off towards the offices behind her.

"Coming?" John asked with another disconcerted face.

Sherlock nodded, but waved him off for a second. "A moment, John."

He and Lestrade waited by the matte glass door, while Sherlock followed the other two towards the lab at the opposite end of the hallway. With piqued curiosity, they soon trailed behind.

"Molly," Sherlock called after her.

She let her hand slide away from the propped open door and stepped back into the hall. After shrugging at Anderson through a vertical window beside it, she turned towards Sherlock, making his way down the hall towards her. Technicians and scientists posed with immaculate machines and bioreactors in framed posters beside them. Sherlock slowed and came to a stop in front of Molly. An older gentleman smiled in Sherlock's direction through one of the photos behind her. He vaguely noticed the words _CEO_ and _Founder_ in a caption beside the man.

She waited expectantly. Her posture was closed off with arms crossed in front of her, but her eyes looked up pleadingly. _Pleading for what?_

"I-" Sherlock began, but didn't know how to convey his thoughts. For her, the two hadn't really spoken since John's wedding.

"Molly," he continued.

He waited for her eyes to lock onto his, before he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her lips. His descent had been slow and calculated, but the second he reached his target, he snaked both hands up and under her arms, and cradled her head back with such fervour, she lost her footing and had to steady herself with a hand against the poster behind her.

A beat later, the two pulled apart, almost simultaneously. Sherlock couldn't meet Molly's eyes and instead locked onto the elderly man behind him, with the top half of his head hidden by Molly's slender fingers and hand.

A stinging pain broke his transfixion. He looked around bewildered, before the pain struck him again on the other cheek.

Sherlock raised a hand to his face and saw Molly glaring at him through the openings between his fingers. Her slapping hand retreated to her side and she clenched and unclenched her fist, ridding herself of residual anger.

"Ow." He rubbed his face and left his hand to rest against his chin.

She was on the verge of heated words, but with every attempt came the raise of her hand and a minor flinch from Sherlock. She drew back.

"I'm sorry." She didn't smile or look away flustered, but met him head on; more ashamed of herself, then truly sorry.

"I am fairly grateful for the lack of a ring."

She snarled and swung open the door to the lab again, hard. Fragments of Anderson's voice flitted through with every sway, back and forth.

Sherlock turned to the men ten paces behind him. "A bit not good?"

The guys stared back, mouths open and still, so long a fly could have flown in and out without any of them noticing.

"Unexpected," John finally spat out. He looked to Lestrade for reassurance.

"Would have bet against that." He ran a hand through his hair, before letting it hang from his neck like a hook.

"I wouldn't gamble if I were you," Sherlock advised, cooly. "Don't we have some questions for the manager?" he asked when neither one of the men reacted accordingly.

They nodded, desynchronized and followed Sherlock through the office door.

"Are we going to talk about what happened earlier?" John broke up the ice in his drink with a partially chewed on straw.

Sherlock swallowed the last of his beer leftover from dinner and shrugged. "Attempt was a failure. Try again next time I suppose."

"Next time?" John muttered to himself. He pushed his watered down drink away from him and leaned forward, over the table. "You think I can't read you. You think you're coming off detached, but admit it Sherlock."

He pretended to ignore his friend.

"Admit that this has thrown you."

Sherlock appeared unfazed and looked out at the restaurant guests around them. Many wore suits, sharing meals with colleagues or eating alone, while others nursed their third margarita over at the bar.

"If I had to be sure of one thing, it was this," Sherlock finally broke, smearing in a circle, the ring of water his beer glass had left on the wood vineer of the table.

John smiled sympathetically. "It might have been fine a few years ago, but surely you knew she wouldn't stand for that behaviour now."

Sherlock looked up suddenly, face long and worn. "Now?"

"Yes. Now. You didn't notice? You are the smart one." John shot him a lopsided grin.

"She is no longer infatuated with me?"

John wasn't sure if Sherlock was being rhetorical or completely serious. "Yes…" he drawled out.

"Huh." Sherlock's puddle of water was drying up. "She definitely kissed me like she was."

The two shared a solitary laugh, before John punched Sherlock playfully in the shoulder.

"I'm not saying she doesn't love you anymore. I just don't think she's in love with you."

"Love?" Sherlock scrunched up his face.

John nodded. "Yes, Sherlock. We humans are prone to it occasionally."

Sherlock waved down John's jab and stood quickly.

"Where are you going?" John asked. "Your train isn't leaving for at least another hour."

"Can I have the key to your room?"

John narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

Sherlock extended his hand, impatiently.

John gave in and handed the card over. "Mind palace?"

Sherlock didn't confirm or deny, just slipped in a quick "thanks," and left.

Even with two hours to think it over the night before, Sherlock still hadn't formulated a solid plan by the time he heard the familiar Edinburgh Waverley station greeting the following morning.

The man in the ridiculous blue suit beside him greeted him politely like usual. Before he could ask Sherlock any further questions, Sherlock turned abruptly in his seat to face the man.

"Are you married?"

The man chuckled. "Yes. Fourteen years now. Married my high school girlfriend after she returned from university and I-"

"Does she love you?" Sherlock interjected.

The man looked a tad bit affronted, but answered Sherlock nevertheless. "I'd say so. Yes."  
"Why?" Sherlock asked, bluntly.

The train came to a stop and the others around them began to stand. Sherlock held a hand out in front of the man.

"Before you go, just answer me this one question."

The man looked uncomfortable with eyes trained on the exit. "Uh… Why me?"

"I see you every-" Sherlock broke off before finishing. "Despite your choice in wardrobe, you look like you have most of your affairs in order."

The man pushed past the slighted compliment and stepped out of the aisle. "What did you want to ask?"

"How do you improve a relationship?"

"Are you asking for you, yourself, personally?"

Sherlock didn't answer, but egged him on.

"Have you done something wrong? Cheated or not given the attention they deserved?"

Sherlock shook his head. "We aren't in a relationship like that."

"But you're friends?"

Sherlock tilted his head, considering his relationship with Molly. Were they friends? Or just familiar colleagues?

"Sort of. Close colleagues."

The man picked up his briefcase, noticing the train official ushering them to exit the train. "Talk to them. Get to know them better."

"How?" Sherlock called after the man.

He followed him off the train and onto the platform.

"How do I get to know her better?" They had made their way into a large crowd of people milling about, but Sherlock wouldn't let this go. "How?"

"Ask. Start with a favourite colour and move on from there."

"That's so… trivial," Sherlock replied.

The man sighed, exhausted from the conversation. "It's just my advice, okay?"

Sherlock shifted his bag between his hands nervously. "How did you get to know your wife?"

The man's congenial smile returned for a second. "I sat beside her in year 10 chemistry. She told me that we were just lab partners, and it didn't mean anything more than that. I showed her she was wrong."

"In one day?" Sherlock looked very alarmed.

No, course not." The man chuckled. "It took weeks, but it was worth it."

With a nod, Sherlock thanked the man and left the station for Prince Street.

Coming out of the lab hours later, Sherlock caught Molly as she dialled for a cab. He loomed over her, watching from behind her shoulder as she flicked through her recently used numbers.

"Save yourself the trouble," he spoke.

She turned with a mild glare. Sherlock's mind instantly flashed back to their shared kiss from the day before. It took a very persistent nagging in the back of his mind to remind himself that this present glare had nothing to do with the transpiring of yesterday's events.

"I called us a cab," he continued a couple seconds later.

She shot him a weary glance, then looked behind him to the other men waiting outside as well.

"I'm going back to the hotel, Sherlock."

"Yes. I know." He nodded in agreement. "As am I."

"You aren't going with them to talk to the mother?" She clicked her phone off, nevertheless, and slid it back into her oversized bag.

"No. I'm sure they can handle it."

Molly looked up at him sceptically. Her eyes roamed over him. _Was this how it felt to be deduced?_

"What's this about, Sherlock?"

He feigned ignorance. "I simply believe I am of better use back at the hotel to go over the current details."

After another once over, she pursed her lips, and rested her case. "Fine, but we're splitting the fare."

The cab ride over was short, but it felt like it'd been stretched out for hours. The two sat in uncomfortable silence for most of the journey. Sherlock attempted to make conversation, but was shot down quickly.

"Not now, please," Molly pleaded, mostly to spare herself the argument that would soon follow.

"I was trying to make small talk," he countered.

He looked over at her, staring partially out the window, huddled close to the door, legs crossed, with one elbow resting uncomfortably high on the arm rest. Her at-ease posture was failing her.

"You wear a lot of flowers, Molly. I assume you like pastel colours?"

She looked up, confused. "Is this your way of saying that I should not?"

He cocked his head.

"Are you saying I should no longer wear things with flowers on it?"

Sherlock looked even more lost, if humanly possible for the detective.

"No…" he trailed off. "I wanted to know what your favourite colour was."

"Oh." Her brows scrunched together and 3 thin creases formed on her forehead. "I don't really have a favourite colour."

Sherlock frowned -the type of frown one would nod their head along to as opposed to displeasure, though. "Neither do I; knew that was a ridiculous question."

Molly's tongue darted from her mouth and she caught it between her front teeth. "I would have guessed it was purple or maybe aubergine."

He didn't follow.

"Nevermind."

The silence returned, but with every passing minute, the urge to say more hung heavily in the air between them. Just then, Sherlock noticed a rustling coming from Molly's side of the backseat. She was scavenging through her bag and had produced two tenners when sherlock realized they were almost back at the hotel.

"Let me know if there are any new leads on the case that require my attention," she told Sherlock. She handed the cabbie her share of the fare, then stepped out of the small car.

"Sir," the cabbie said, getting Sherlock's attention.

Sherlock sat up straight and pulled the remaining notes from his wallet. His eyes stayed trained on the petite brunette entering the hotel entrance as he handed the cabbie the rest of the fare.

An uneasy feeling overtook his stomach as he stepped into the mid-afternoon air. He felt an odd pull on his body, telling him to follow her, but his feet wouldn't budge from the pavement below. When a horn from a passing car finally got him moving again, Sherlock's feet couldn't carry him fast enough. Up the cracking stone steps and into the hotel foyer, Sherlock went. But as he scanned the lobby, the only bouncing brown ponytail belonged to a young girl waiting with her mom by the elevators.

He sat down, defeated, on a creamy overstuffed sofa, and steepled his hands under his chin. If he just would've said something else; not been a git and just came out with it. His hands drifted down to the pockets of his suit jacket where he found the jagged outline of John's room key.

 _No consequences,_ he reminded himself. For once, the next June 2nd couldn't come soon enough.


	6. Eighth Times the Charm

_No consequences,_ he reminded himself. For once, the next June 2nd couldn't come soon enough.

* * *

The following day, he took her by surprise. After opening the cab door for her, outside of BioTech labs, Molly accepted his courteous gesture, but took the nearest seat. Looking back, he supposed he could have simply walked around, but the possibility that the car would have left without him was just too great.

"Scoot," he said, flicking his hand towards the adjacent passenger seat.

Her stare back was filled with confusion and an eagerness to disobey, but she did so, slowly and methodically.

"George hotel," she told the cabbie.

He nodded and the car pulled out of the car park.

A few minutes into their journey, Molly swung her right leg up onto the middle seat between them, bent, with her foot dangling off her other knee. She leaned over and let her elbow rest on her thigh. Sherlock watched the creases in her black trousers fold over, bunched in the center and pulled tight near her knee.

"Sherlock!"

He looked up to see her eyes fixed on his.

"You going to tell me why you're here?"

His lips perked up at her bluntness and he crossed his legs as well, mimicking her posture.

"I was hoping we could talk." He leaned across the seat like she had, but his arms remained crossed in his lap.

She pulled back only slightly, alarmed at their proximity, but her stone cold countenance remained unchanged.

"About what exactly?" she bit out.

He smiled mechanically.

"Is this about the case?" she cut in.

He searched her eyes for the right answer, but she hid it away.

"Yes," he tried. It came out more like a question.

"Well I already told Lestrade back at the labs that I didn't find any samples out of place."

She turned away from him and recrossed her legs towards the door. Sherlock bit back a curse word; he knew things were not looking good at this point.

"Can I at least-" He reached out and took her hand that lay limp on the black seat beside her.

Her action was delayed, but by the time he'd scooped it up in his own hand, she pulled away.

 _Failure number three,_ he thought, unsettled.

"Molly." He tapped her on the shoulder outside of BioTech labs.

She spun around quickly, whipping his hand with her ponytail.

"Sherlock," she acknowledged him cooly. She lowered her cell phone to her side -the backlight from the screen creating an outline on her trousers.

"I've called us a cab."

She looked down to see his hand cover her own and click the the off button on the top of her mobile.

"And why are you-"

He raised a single finger to silence her and turned toward the street without a response. Their cab pulled up moments later and Sherlock rested his hand on the small of her back, before nudging her forward.

She obliged and stepped in, placing her bag on the floor beside her. "I'm going to the hotel though, Sherlock."

"As am I," he replied. "George hotel," he told the cabbie.

"You going to tell me why you're here?"

"I was hoping we could talk." The line spilled from his mouth with an unpleasant familiarity.

"About what exactly?"

He spoke quickly to beat her to the punch.

"I want - I need your help with this case."

She leaned back, flummoxed, and didn't reply at first. He let the words tumble about her brain. He could see her thoughts mirrored in the ever changing expressions on her face.

"You need my help?"

He nodded.

"With what?" Her hand tapped against the middle seat between them.

Sherlock reached out, somehow drawn to it, but recovered quickly, running his hand back through his hair.

"If you just need someone to talk at, I suggest a poor and unsuspecting civilian."

Sherlock bit back a laugh. "I was hoping for more than just a skull."

"And not John? Weren't you going to go talk to the victim's mother?"

Sherlock waved down her comment. "Like I said, I'm looking for a conversation."

They pulled up to the the hotel then. Sherlock looked to Molly, fingers mentally crossed behind him. He really didn't want to repeat this again. Every failure lead to another lonely night and sometimes a trip to the chemists for sleeping pills.

"Fine. I'll help. But you're covering the fare."

Sherlock agreed with a smile and reached for his wallet. Untouched since the morning, he thanked whatever twisted god that was trapping him in this day that his money never ran out.

They entered the hotel together, Molly behind Sherlock, and paused at the T-fork in the hallway. Ahead of them lay the elevator to Molly's room and off to the side was the dining hall, closed till supper.

"Fish and chips?" she suggested, when his eyes continued to linger on the stainless steel double doors.

By chance, the doors opened at that moment, and let out a family of four.

"Yes. Let's."

The chippy shop was crowded, with lunch hour in full swing. Molly led the way in, with Sherlock's protests meeting deaf ears. As she had predicted, the section in the back, away from the ordering counter, was scarce with only two tables occupied.

"Hmm," he hummed to himself when she stopped at a table in the centre of the room and grinned, pleased with herself.

"It's still fairly loud in here," he complained.

"Then we'll just have to speak close."

His eyes went wide at her remark, while she looked up, oblivious, in search of a server.

"I think we need to go up and order." She leaned forward over the table with her hands clasped in front of her.

"I'll order for us both." He slid his chair back as the wooden legs scraped against the greasy tiled floor. "Fish and chips fine? Yeah?" He didn't wait for her answer and walked off towards the front.

He'd been in line for all of ten seconds, when he felt her presence by his side.

"I can order for myself, thank you," she huffed.

"Mmm," he returned, his eyes never leaving the back of the man's head in front of him.

"One two-piece fish and chips," he told the cashier when they'd reached the front.

"And one shrimp and chips," she added sharply.

"Shrimp, not fish," he noted to himself.

The cashier eyed the pair and hesitantly rung up their order. "Is that it?"

Sherlock nodded and Molly stalked off back to their table.

"Twelve pounds, sir," the young man told Sherlock. "You're order number 91."

"This looks busy," molly commented as the two came upon a chippy down the street from the hotel. "And I don't why, but there's something familiar about this place."

Sherlock opened the door to break her train of thought. "Just a lot of takeaway." He led her in, resting his hand over her shoulder.

Sure enough, there were plenty of empty tables in the back. Molly acknowledged his deduction with a smile.

"I can order your shrimp and chips if you grab us a table in the corner."

She raised her brow at this. "Uh, yeah. Sure. Thanks."

He caught her blushing towards her feet and turned for the line as she walked away. He watched her retreating figure and felt the tug of a smile on his lips.

 _Who needs weeks,_ he thought to himself. _At this rate, I'll have this day forever._

He stepped up to the counter to give the cashier his order, pleased. He dare not think of the day when all would go well and he'd see no results the following morning.

"You're stuck on the motive, I take it?" Molly tucked her left foot behind her right and took a sip from her paper cup of water.

Sherlock dipped his head in agreement. "I'm almost compelled to consider this an accident."

Molly gaped back in fake astonishment. "But that would be so -so boring."

The corner of his mouth perked up in amusement. "And highly impractical. The sample would have had to been dislodged from its case and the cap on the syringe removed, which might I add, does not pop off easily."

"So murder." Her left brow perked up in interest. "Was it someone he knew?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in concentration.

"Order number 89!" a voice yelled from behind the counter

Molly jumped up from her chair. "That's ours."

Sherlock pushed back from the table and went to rise as well, when he felt Molly's hand cover his own.

"I'll get both."

Eyes fixed on their hands, he nodded dumbly. He watched as she pulled back, her fingers sliding over the outside of his hand until they'd met tabletop and danced away.

They didn't speak much as they ate, Molly faster than Sherlock so she'd pushed away her empty basket by the time he'd started on his chips.

"Your earlier reports… You'd assumed it was a poison?" he asked, holding a chip half covered in vinegar above his basket.

"Mmm. Yes. But the evidence didn't add up. I plated a few samples of his gut microflora and found live spores in the epithelium layer."

"That's what the report said."

Molly nodded along. "That's why you assumed it'd come from BioTech lab."

Sherlock smile fell. "But none of their samples were missing?"

"All accounted for."

A young man with the shop's name across his apron walked by them to clean the next table over. They went silent, sneaking hidden grins between sips of their waters.

Molly stole a soaked chip from the bottom of his basket as the employee retreated back into the kitchen. "I suppose a fatal toxicoinfection is not the most common topic to discuss over lunch."

"I haven't the slightest idea why."

He held his guise of austerity for a while and only when his eyes wandered from her, did Molly visibly relax.

"Sometimes it's hard to tell whether you're serious or not."  
He blinked, went to speak, then blinked again.

"I'm not annoyed or anything. It's just hard to joke around you sometimes."

Sherlock just sat there, unsure of how to respond to such a statement. He heard her sigh before she began to collect their empty baskets, and brought them up to the counter.

"I'm heading back. Thanks for the lunch, Sherlock."

He vaguely acknowledged her departure, too stuck in his own head to catch her sad smile or the way she lingered by the exit, hand supporting the door open before it closed with a swoosh.

 _Was that his problem,_ he thought. He'd always assumed she was like him -that she caught every nuance, every one of his body movements and gestures. Did she not think twice when he'd ghost his hand over her back, despite every nerve in his body tensing at the contact? Or even his looks. Despite every stimulant around him, his eyes never left hers. Sounds and smells and flashes of movement; the people, the every changing motion calling for his attention, and yet there was this small and so very strong woman in front of him that could drown everything out.

 _Was this game even worth it?_ But then it came to him. Amidst the noise and smells in the small Edinburgh fish and chips shop, he realized Molly wasn't a case -she wasn't a game. She was an enigma.

"Order 89!"

Sherlock sprung up in his seat and walked to the counter to pick up their baskets of food.

"One shrimp and chips," he said sliding it in front of her. He set a glass bottle of vinegar between the two.

"I still can't believe you knew I liked shrimp." She bit off a battered one from its tail.

He made a point to smile, full on smile, and shrugged. "I do observe."

Molly's face fell and she bit her lip self consciously. "I'm aware."

"Order 89!"

Sherlock left to get their orders from the counter.

"One shrimp and chips." He slid the basket in front of her and placed a bottle of vinegar between them.

"I still can't believe you knew I liked shrimp." She ate one from her basket.

"Why?" he posed.

She stopped pouring the vinegar over her chips, already drowning in the condiment, and hummed. "I just didn't think you'd remember stuff like that -stuff that wasn't useful."

"I think it's useful."

She cocked her head, questioningly. "Oh. How so?"

"Because it's you." He froze. _Too sentimental._ "Because I make it my business to know all there is to know about you, Molly."

"Because we're friends?"

He paused. "Yes, friends." He wasn't sure if he was a huge fan of that word, now that he thought about it.

By the time the restaurant had quieted down, the remaining chips in their baskets were soggy and cold. Molly pushed hers away.

"You finished?" he asked, already picking it up to throw away.

She nodded and withdrew her mobile, checking on the time.

"I should head back to the hotel. It's already 4."

"Wait!" he all but yelled.

She nearly dropped her bag, before readjusting it over her shoulder. "The guys are probably heading back from the mother's place soon. I was hoping to catch them. See if they had any hints as to what the victim could have been involved in."

"Yes. That makes sense." Sherlock straightened his suit jacket and rebuttoned the front.

"But you can come back. You don't need to go off on your own and sulk." She smirked and rolled her top lip over the bottom one.

"I don't sulk," he replied haughtily.

They walked together without much of a destination in mind. Molly's pace with faster than Sherlock's, but his longer strides kept them together. With hands shoved deep into trouser pockets, Sherlock looked up above the rooftops just beyond Waverley station.

"Care for a hike?" He halted mid step and grabbed her swinging hand to bring both of them to a stop.

She looked down at Sherlock's dress shoes and her shabby brown plimsolls. "In this? Now?"

His hunched shoulders begged the question, _why not?_

"We are on a case."

He didn't respond, but stepped toward the street, her hand still in his left, and waved down a cab.

Recent rainfall made the path up to Arthur's seat, quite a struggle. Specks of people were scattered along the top. A group of university kids passed Molly and Sherlock, all laughs and the scent of cheap brandy on their lips.

"Come on old man," Molly called to Sherlock, who'd just slipped on a patch of mud and was using his hand against the hill to stable himself.

"My shoes are just slippery. That's all," he bit out.

Molly rolled her eyes and extended an arm. With his clean hand, he grasped hers, and pulled himself upright.

"We don't have to go up to the top," she offered.

He snarled back, like a petulant child, and stomped past her. "Of course we are."

Jagged rock poked out near the edge of the cliff, overlooking the city below.

"Everything looks so small and crammed together from here," Molly said, lost in her own world.

She sat down on the grass and rested her shoes against the rock that jutted up from it. Sherlock peered down at her, his mind whirling. He honestly wouldn't mind repeating this part of the day. As long as his pathologist was here with him.

A spider crawled up from the grass and past her shoes, and she leaned forward to flick it away. The movement jarred Sherlock and he bent forward, encircling his arms around her body. She rested her hands back on the ground and peered quizzically back at him, crouched down behind her. Thier noses brushed briefly and she tried to respond, but the response caught in her throat.

"I'm -I'm okay, Sherlock," she whispered.

"Yes. I know." He loosened his grip, barely, and took a seat behind her.

"Uh, Sherlock… I promise not to fall off the cliff."

He released her from his grip and apologized, "sorry, yes." He touched his cheek, tinged pink from embarrassment, and blew out a long breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

His legs stretched out in front of him, bent at a 90 degree angle at the knee, and he let the weight of his torso fall back into the grass.

Molly could feel his presence behind her, but didn't dare turn and face him. Instead, she let her hand crawl across the grass, reaching blindly for the consulting detective. She felt the material of his unbuttoned suit jacket first and snaked her hand along it. When she met a bowed arch in the material, she stopped. Her thumb and index finger explored the coarse wool of his jacket, while her other fingers splayed over the smooth crease in his white oxford button-up. It stretched over his chest, like a sloping plain. When her fingers met the first overlapping of fabric, near a sole button, Sherlock coughed.

She drew her hand away, tepidly, and lifted her to the side to meet his gaze.

"Hi," he spoke smoothly, the edges of his lips lifting for a moment.

He had his head supported, hand resting against his cheek, and all attention lay on the woman in front of him. Only the sparse streaks of clouds passing beyond the hill, crossed his eyeline.

"It's beautiful," he said when she neither returned her gaze to the valley below, nor spoke any words of her own.

"Gorgeous," she added, eyes lingering on his body, before meeting his gaze once more.

"The view?"

Her eyes averted his and she found sudden interest in the short, knubby blades of grass between them. "Yes, the view," she muttered, pulling a couple pieces out and letting the wind sweep them over the edge.

"You ever thought about living, here?" she asked, letting a final blade drift off from between her fingers.

"Edinburgh?" The city name had never sounded so English before.

"Yeah."

"It hadn't crossed my mind, no."

She nodded and leaned back against his legs.

"Have you?"

She paused to consider his question. "I was planning on moving here, actually."

"When?" He jerked up, causing Molly to nearly fall over. "Is that why you're here? Are you staying after the case?"

Molly shook her head against Sherlock's knees. He could smell the faint aroma of her shampoo and another smell; so familiar, so Molly.

"I just meant later. When I'll undoubtedly tire of London and St. Barts and the morgue."

 _And me._

Just then, Sherlock felt his legs begin to vibrate. But no, it wasn't him, it was Molly's phone. She pulled it with struggle from her trouser pocket and answered.

"Hi, Greg."

 _Greg?_

"Yes. Dinner sounds great… Ok, I might be a bit late… Yeah I'm out."

Sherlock grumbled.

"But I'll leave now. See you then." She closed the phone. "Lestrade invited us for dinner with the others at the hotel. Still have room in that little stomach of yours for supper?"

"Just because I choose not to eat sometimes, does not mean I don't have an acceptable appetite."

Molly mocked his sour expression, pushing him back on the grass when he frowned even more in return.


	7. Practice Makes

Molly mocked his sour expression, pushing him back on the grass when he frowned even more in return.

* * *

The other three men were already seated at a round table in the back when Molly and Sherlock entered the hotel dining room. Molly was spotted first, weaving around a waiter that carried a loaded tray above his head.

Lestrade waved in her direction and flashed a quick smile. "Over here."

"Any new leads?" she asked them, pulling out an empty chair.

Her question was ignored, however, because three sets of eyes had landed on the man trailing behind her.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade tried to cover his astonishment. "Didn't realize you guys got back at the same time," he continued sheepishly.

Anderson sat his drink down on the table and grinned with a mischievous smile. "I'm pretty sure they came together," he said just loud enough for John and Greg to hear him.

The latter elbowed him in the side.

"John, Graham," Sherlock nodded to the two men beside him. He looked across to Anderson and merely nodded his head, a slight twitch in his eye.

Small talk with his associates wasn't on the top of Sherlock's todo list, but he sat through an uncomfortable meal with the others anyway. He was treading on thin ice with Molly, weary of any comments or actions that might come off as rude or mean.

He'd repeated the same day twenty six times now. Everyday he played through the same cab ride conversations, talked about the same points on the case, and ate the same salty food for lunch. He deemed it necessary to not alter his day in any way. It was all very monotonous.

There was a plus side though. A single reason he continued with the charade. A single person. A person, who at that moment, was holding his hand below the table. He'd been resting his own against his leg, tense and rigid, when she'd noticed. He was fairly sure he was thankful for that.

"So the mother informed us that she'd seen her son two days before his death," Lestrade informed him.

This caught Sherlock's attention. He raised his head up from where it'd been watching his spoon push the last piece of chicken around his soup. "When? Did he behave oddly?"

"Morning, before lunch. She didn't give us a definitive time. As for his behaviour-" Lestrade shrugged. "-the mother said he looked fine. He stopped by for about ten minutes before leaving for the train station."

"His delivery for London…" Sherlock trailed off in thought.

"Yeah, the delivery that the London lab received on time." Lestrade pushed his plate away and exhaled loudly. "These cases make me want to retire early."

"Highly impractical," Sherlock informed the detective.

Lestrade frowned, but said nothing further. He called over their waitress, a middle aged woman from Wales, and ordered the table a round of ales.

"None for me," Sherlock said.

"And make mine a screwdriver," Molly added in from beside him.

He raised a brow in surprise.

"Come on Sherlock, just a drink," Lestrade said. "We won't be doing any more crime solving till mornin' anyway."  
Molly poked Sherlock's side and whispered close to his ear, "Come on, I've already got you eating during the case."

"So?" The waitress waited impatiently with her weight shifted to one side and a pen balanced on her order pad.

"Fine," Sherlock grumbled.

Lestrade smiled broadly. "Four of your ales on tap and a screwdriver for the doctor."

Sherlock wondered if the man hadn't already started drinking.

What had started as one round quickly became a second, third, and even fourth. Molly, caught up in their mildly tipsy banter, went through her own drink as well as another double.

Sherlock felt excited and nervous and warm, all at once. He found himself leaning over to Molly for both conversation and sheer proximity. At a quarter till 10:00, Lestrade excused himself for the night, and was quickly followed by Anderson, who proved to be quite the light weight. The forensic scientist couldn't help smiling wryly at Sherlock and Molly as he took the long way around their table, pausing behind their chairs to catch Molly's hand resting near Sherlock's on his knee.

Despite John having no recollection of their discussion on Sherlock's previous kiss with Molly many June 2nds before, he still smiled knowingly at the pair.

"I think I'm turning in too." He patted Sherlock on the shoulder, somehow as both encouragement and a warning.

"Do you…" Sherlock began as Molly turned to him and asked, "Are you finished?"

He nodded. They stood up simultaneously, wooden chairs scraping against the dark tile floor below, and paid their share of the bill.

"Thank you," Molly said politely to the waitress as she passed them on their way out.

After pocketing her wallet and crossing underneath an arch that separated the dining hall and foyer, she whirled around to face Sherlock. A few tendrils of hair had escaped her ponytail and she tucked them back behind her ears.

"Do you…" he began again. He shifted nervously.

"Do I what?"

 _God, how is this so hard,_ he scolded himself.

Their slow shuffling had carried them all the way over to the front elevators. Sherlock looked up and noticed that the lights in the panel above the double doors read the number _4._

"A walk. We could walk."

"Didn't we just hike before dinner?" she laughed.

She followed his line of sight to the elevators behind her. "Uh yeah. A walk sounds great."

"Harrow and Oxford? Aren't you just the walking epitome of the rich southern boy."

His expression was blank, unsure if that was a good thing or not. Instead he just hummed, acknowledging her statement.

"It's not bad," she added when he hadn't said anything for a few seconds. "Chemistry major?"

"Math at first, actually."

She looked up at him, waiting for him to continue. She wanted to hear his story. It was odd and comforting. People always found interest in his deductions, but rarely his upbringing. It was as if they expected his childhood to be as much of a mystery as the consulting detective himself, and never bothered to ask.

"My mum was disappointed when Mycroft chose international relations, so she was ever so keen on me following in her footsteps. Turns out, I wasn't much of a mathematician."

Molly laughed. He didn't understand what she found so funny, but went on.

"The maths bored me, so after nearly flunking out after my first year, she and my father agreed I could switch to chemistry."

"Huh."

"What?" he peered down at her defensively.

"I just never pictured the Sherlock Holmes being bad at anything."

"You should see me draw." He nudged her arm.

"I bet it's not that bad."

They stepped off the pavement together and crossed by an alley. Sherlock pulled Molly closer, resting his hand gently above her waist. The streetlights around them were just turning on with the last glow of sunset fading below the horizon to their west. Tiny orange and red bursts peeked out from between buildings. It felt like driving slowly through a lit tunnel —the passing beams of light flitting past periodically.

"What about you?" he felt obliged to ask. His eyes darkened, a sudden seriousness to them. "Specialist registrar… not exactly your average diploma."

Molly blushed, but didn't shy away. "Is that a compliment?"

Sherlock shrugged. "If you want it to be."

She nodded with a smile. "Four years of undergrad. Four years med school. Two years for FY1 and 2." She shook her head. "It's not very exciting."

He took a moment, working out the details in his mind. "But-"

"Yeah. I was off for two years before med school."

At first Sherlock's mind drifted to travel or perhaps work abroad, but then tiny details, ones he hadn't realized he'd been collecting of Molly, shone through.

"Your father."  
She nodded. They stopped at a crossroads, waiting, as cars passed by illuminating her shrunken figure in glimpses among the encapsulating moonlight.

"We should go back," he decided for them.

She didn't nod, didn't reply, just slipped an arm through his like an anchor and let him lead the way.

For all the times Sherlock had made an idiot of himself, he thanked every deity, every heaven he doubted the existence of, that tonight had not been one of them. They were a block from the hotel. It was almost 11:00. One final hour in the day he could never escape. Where had he been on past June 2nds? Home at Baker St, curled into the cushions of his couch. On a train destined for a London he would never see. Dead. Asleep on the sofa in John's hotel room —an open packet of sleeping pills on the coffee table. Out of all he cared to remember, this had been the best.

"I'm amazed at how much one day can change things," Molly admitted, walking alongside him.

They turned the corner to see a thin stream of light making its way down the entrance steps of the hotel.

"Change for the better?" he pondered, both to himself and the small woman curled into his side.

She caught a brief glimpse of doubt flash over his face and tightened her grip on his arm. "I'd say so, yes." She stepped away from him to open the front door, cradling the handle in her grasp. "You can't plan days like these."

She swung the door open all the way and made her way inside.

"Well you can try," Sherlock murmured.

Whether the elevator panel reading floor _4_ was a coincidence or not, Sherlock had no time to decide what his next step with Molly was. Her attention was elsewhere, looking towards the lounge. All he could focus on were those shiny metal doors, yet here she was, looking out into a deserted section of the lobby.

"Sherlock." She whipped her head around to face him. "When does your train leave?"

He stared blankly back. _My train?_

"Oh, my train."

She cast a wary look his way.

His eyes roamed the lounge and found the clock she'd been watching earlier. "It's actually already left," he replied without a hint of disappointment or frustration.

"Oh." She stared up at him, around the empty lobby, and finally to the elevators.

"Did you want to call John?" She stepped away to give him space.

"Mobile's dead." His eyes flickered up to met hers briefly. "How about yours?"

She didn't even reach down to feel the mobile's outline in her trousers, just shook her head. "Dead as well."

He couldn't help the pull of his lips, sliding into a crooked smile.

"The landline in your room; it's not dead is it?"

She bit her bottom lip, shaking her head no.

The call was, of course, a pretense and both parties standing inside the door to Molly's room knew so without a doubt. But there was a difference between knowing so and knowing what to do.

"The phone's just over there," Molly said, resigned.

"I -I don't know if he'll answer," Sherlock replied, obtuse.

"You could try anyway." She let out a faint laugh. "That's usually how it works."

"Mmm." He made his way over to the side table beside Molly and picked up the receiver, finger hovering over the _4,_ but made no attempt to push down on it. "I-"

"Yeah?" she egged him on.

"I have no intention of calling John right now."

He looked up from the dialpad to see Molly grinning. Little creases had formed in the corners of her eyes from squinting so much.

"What are your intentions?"

"I was going to kiss you," he replied, scratching at his wrist from under his shirt sleeve.

"So why aren't you?" She reached out and took hold of his hands, pulling them towards her. She placed them over her hips and let go. "Hmm?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Because you wanted me to phone John," he replied confused. He tightened his grip at her sides anyway and pulled her closer.

Molly shook her head, face tilted upwards. "I never said I wanted you to," she whispered. With her hands braced against his chest, she pushed up onto her tippy toes, and wrapped her arms around his neck.

Sherlock gulped.

"And I promise you," she practically breathed into his mouth, "that I certainly never meant it."

Over the course of five minutes, the two made their way from the bedside table, across the room to the door, and back to the bed, without breaking apart. Their kisses were a game of tug-of-war. While one leaned back for air, the other dived forward, catching the other's lips. They were two wind-up toys on different frequencies. Breathing patterns clashed and on multiple occasions, chests collided in unelegant fashions.

But it didn't matter. There was no hurdle too insurmountable to stop them. Neither a trip over the other's foot nor a stumble from the shedding of his suit jacket stalled the two. That was, however, until Sherlock rolled off of Molly, past the flowery bedspread, and onto the floor below. It sounded painful -a heavy thump- but the detective gave no sign of pain. Instead, he smiled up at Molly, with a goofy grin on his face, as she leaned over the corner.

"I love you," he admitted in his hazy state.

"What!" Rolling back, Molly pushed herself up from the bed and stood up. "When did you decide this?"

"Today… Well not _today_ today," he rambled, coming to his feet as well.

She withdrew her hands from her pockets and crossed them in front of her. Her face was rigid —tense lines drawn into the slopes by her mouth and eyes. "How can you decide that today?" She pulled one arm up to her face, attempting to hide her emotions.

Sherlock shrugged with one shoulder, obviously not understanding the impact of his words, and tried to recall his reasoning from days before. "With an infinite timeline, I questioned the possibility of a future I never thought I could ever persue."

She blinked back at him. "What?" her voice cracked.

"I wanted to see what it'd be like. Us."

"Oh." She sank down onto the bed they'd collapsed upon earlier. Though she appeared no less confused or frustrated, her voice got softer. "Why?"

"Why not?" he replied without much thought.

"Why not? Why not!" Her feet hit the floor with a thump and she stalked over to him with a pointed finger. "Maybe because your whole idea of love is an alternative to boredom."

"Logically, everything is an alternative."

"Mmm. Like drugs?"

His eyes widened like a drop of fluid on one of her cell slides.

"How'd you know?" Despite her _I will not hesitate to hit you_ mood, Sherlock encroached upon her with an unwavering stare. "How do you know about that?" he whispered. "Do you _know?_ "

"Know that you have a history with drugs?" She laughed outloud —one of those fake ones that catches in the throat. "Yes I know!" She smacked him across the shoulder.

"Oh, I just thought..." he grumbled to himself. _Of course she doesn't know about this, you idiot!_

"I'm gullible, not an idiot, Sherlock."

"This isn't like drugs though."

"Because drugs couldn't get you lab access and free body parts to experiment on?"

"No."

"Or what, is this also for a case?"

"No!" he said, finding himself growing more upset by the minute. _Why wasn't she listening? Why wasn't she understanding?_

"Because!" He pulled against his shirt tails, scrunching them up into a little ball. "Because."

In one stride he was hovering over her, gazing down at her piercing glare that had locked onto his. She didn't blink, daring him, provoking him to continue, so he did. Slowly, he reached his hands underneath her arms and tilted her head back. She fought back with little resistance, almost like she'd put too much energy into her glare to expend it on anything else. When his lips were mere centimeters away, he dove in, capturing hers in haste.

They steadied themselves, taking a few steps back, placing one foot after another in sync. When both bodies returned fully upright, Sherlock pulled away with a smile. Molly however, was not so impressed. After a curt shake of her head and downcast glance, she jerked her head back up and slapped him across the face.

The impact was shocking, more than anything. He didn't understand. Despite his best efforts, he'd faced the same results as the first time he'd kissed her.

 _But the déjà vu_ , he reminded himself. _If she could remember a fish shop, surely she would remember a bloody kiss!_

 _No._

"I'm guessing your phone isn't actually dead," she assumed, breaking his train of thought.

"It is." He flashed her the black screen after clicking it a few times.

His truthfulness didn't seem to curb her anger, though.

"I suppose I can just go find him." He pointed to the door.

She nodded, looking over his shoulder with a grimace so tight, it appeared her lips had caved in on each other.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he said. _One way or another._

Turning his back on the room, he walked out. When he'd made it into the hall, he hesitated on the door handle, and took a final glance back. She had this weary look in her eye and when she didn't realize he could still see her, she reached up and touched a hand to her lips one last time.

"Order 89!"

Sherlock pushed back his chair in a scramble and hopped up to get their food. _Day twenty seven,_ he thought. _Don't mess it up._


End file.
